


Love is Pomegranate and Honey

by vermissa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, Synesthesia, Two Shot, synesthesia!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vermissa/pseuds/vermissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're telling me that you can taste words?" John repeats the words disbelievingly. Sherlock lets the tastes of John's voice lingers on his tongue. Everything John says is pleasant, which cannot be said about a lot of people Sherlock has met. Why, then, would someone wonderfully normal like John want to live with Sherlock - a sociopath, a freak?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! It's my first shot at writing fanfic, so I appreciate all constructive feedback! :) In this story, Sherlock has a neurological phenomenon known as auditory-gustatory synesthesia that enabled him to associate tastes to sounds/words. I'm not afflicted with this phenomenon nor do I know anyone who is, but I did do a bit of research. If there are any errors, please point them out to me and I will correct right away! Also, this story is not beta-ed, all errors are mine.

“Sherlock!”

_Cake batter._

“Sherlock!” 

_Broccoli. Yuck._

“Sherlock! This is enough, brother-mine. Please come out!” 

_Cake batter. Coffee. Lavender scented soap. Cherries. Hmm... not bad._

“Get your arse down here. Now!”

_Dust. Pumpkin. Rotten eggs. Absolutely disgusting._

Sherlock pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his skinny arms around them. No one would be able to find him here; this is the perfect hiding place - obviously. The voices keep calling out for him. Closing his eyes, Sherlock lets the words roll onto his tongue. Apples, chocolate biscuits, cotton candy, cucumber sandwiches, fresh tomatoes, roasted beef. The tastes are faint at first. As the voices come nearer, the tastes start to be overpowering, especially the unpleasant ones. Brick dust, mucus, vomit. 

Pressing his hands over his ears, Sherlock wishes he could be permanently deaf. He had tried to cut off all the noises via different methods, deliberately injuring his ears was one of them. Unsuccessfully, of course. Otherwise, he would not have to resort to this pedestrian tactic - hiding. Though this is bound to be a failure too. 

A few moments of complete silence. Bliss. 

Silence eases the tastes, allowing Sherlock to escape to his mind palace where it is blessedly bland. 

“Sherlock!” 

_Broccoli. Again, yuck._

_They are getting closer. God damn it. (Cabbage, lime, whiskey)_

_Should stop cursing. The tastes combination is extremely unpleasant._

“Here you are!” 

A pair of strong hands are reaching toward Sherlock, intending to pull the boy out from under the desk.

“I expected a more obvious hiding place,” the voice says amusingly. Lettuce, quince, bacon. 

“Let go of me, Mycroft,” Sherlock spits the words out with as much spite as he can gather. 

Mycroft. _Strong black tea._

“Now, now, be nice. Mummy and Father want you downstairs,” Mycroft stands up to his full height, towering over his little brother. “You cannot be absent. It is the Christmas dinner, after all.” 

Sherlock scowls. 

Mummy. _Candied carrots._

Father. _Burnt toast._

 

*

 

The food is appallingly bad. 

Though some words could taste much worse. “Sorry”, for instance, has an overwhelming lemon rinds flavor.

The thought doesn’t help at all. Sherlock pushes his plate aside. 

Cocaine. _Roasted chestnuts._

What he would give for a pinch of it.

It has been a month since Sherlock was forced into rehab by the ever caring brother Mycroft. Mummy had passed away two months previous. Father had left to god knows where with his mistress. Mummy’s dying wish was for Sherlock to be healthy again. He was forever her little boy with big blue eyes that are sprinkled with golden specks every time the light hit them, innocent and precious. Those eyes used to be filled with wonder, curiosity, determination, and definitely a hint of arrogance. 

“Why do some words taste disgusting, mummy? I don’t want to talk to her; her name tastes like ashes! Kindergarten is so annoying; they are all so stupid and many of them have yucky names. Life is boring, mummy, ‘boring’ tastes of bitter grapefruits, so I want to be a pirate. ‘Pirate’ tastes like apple pies, and I like apple pies,” the two-year-old Sherlock had confined in his mother. 

Mycroft has promised mummy that he would help Sherlock detox. It was easier said than done. 

The worst of it has passed. Thanks heavens. A few more months and Sherlock would be cleaned. Whether he would stayed clean is another problem. 

“Would you like some desserts, Mr. Holmes? Maybe some coffee?” The nurse kindly asks Sherlock. 

“Coffee. Black, two sugars,” Sherlock says without looking up at his nurse. “Thank you, Nancy.” A rare moment of civility. He lets the name swirls around in his mouth. 

Nancy. _Mint with a touch of vanilla. Not bad for a name._

And “thank you” tastes foreign to him, having rarely ever said it (nor heard it from anyone). _Apricot flavored... jelly beans?_

 

*

 

“Who are you?” A man calls out.

_Crackers and canned peas. The accent is tolerable. Good._

“You are wrong,” Sherlock says, waving his hand up in the air in what he intends to be a greeting gesture. Still crouching over the body, he continues matter-of-factly, “This is not a suicide. It is a murder. A serial murder.” 

“How the hell did you get in here? And who are you to say that?” The man, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, approaches Sherlock from behind; his worn-out shoes grind against the wet gravel noisily. It is well past midnight, and he is exhausted. He doesn’t need any unnecessary comments from some nosy bystander who can’t seem to stay behind the police’s line. 

“It is rather obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock says, still looming over the body with his pocket magnifier in hands. 

“Sally!” Lestrade yells out toward the direction of the back door leads into the kitchen. “Before I bring you back to the station, you better start answering my questions,” he turns back to Sherlock and says. 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock stands up. With a swirl of his long, black coat, he comes face to face with the furious policeman. “The fact that I was able to sneak into a crime scene so easily speaks of your team’s inability to handle the most basic of police work.”

“Sir, you call?” The woman, Sally, walks into the backyard. “Who is this?” She notices Sherlock. 

_Popcorn. Sunflower seeds._

“I should be asking you that question, Sargent,” Lestrade grumbles. “Take him back to the station.” 

“Detective Inspector, you might want to look into the first victim’s uncle. Conduct a thorough search of his house,” Sherlock says. “And I don’t think I can go with you.” 

“It is not your decision to make, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade gestures to Sally, who approaches Sherlock with a curious look. 

_A hint of scotch. Peach yogurt._

Sherlock spends the night in Scotland Yard’s interrogation room with a very astonished Detective Inspector. Turns out, Sherlock is right (obviously), and the DI is baffled as to how on earth did he manage to solve the crime so quickly. The other officers aren’t so impressed, however. Not after Sherlock begins to liberally announcing their love lives to everyone within the vicinity. 

“Freak,” Sally huffs when Sherlock asks if her knees hurt after scrubbing Anderson’s floor the previous night. 

Freak. _Chocolate croissants._

 

*

 

“Well, it’s a bit different from my day,” the voice of the newcomer reaches Sherlock from across the lab. It catches his attention immediately: it tastes surprisingly pleasant. 

He glances over at the stranger over the microscope. _Military. Doctor. Psychosomatic limp. Looking for a flatmate. Oh._

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Are the first words Sherlock says to the stranger, who looks at him in astonishment. 

Mike Stamford, who has brought the stranger with him to the lab, is looking back and forth between them, clearly amused. 

“Afghanistan. But...how? Did you tell him about me?” _Apple strudels. Creme brulee._

Mike shakes his enormous, almost bald head in a negative. “He is always like that.” _Over-brewed coffee. Grass._

Oh, just stopping talking already! Sherlock has never liked Mike’s voice, nor does he appreciate his under-average intelligence. Turning to Sherlock, Mike continues, “This is John, John Watson; an old mate of mine.” Yes, I know that, now shut up. 

“Yes, hello. Dr. John Watson,” Watson says and holds out his hand, smiling politely. 

Ignoring the introduction, Sherlock puts on his scarf and grabs his coat, “I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometime I do not talk for days on end. Also, I do experiments in the kitchen,” he says to a much puzzled John Watson. “I figure if we’re to be flatmate, we should know the worst of each other. So come around six tomorrow,” with a curt nod, Sherlock heads for the door. 

“Wait!” John calls out. “That’s it? We don’t know each other. I don’t even know where we are meeting!” 

_Jam tarts. Lemonade. Crisps._

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street,” Sherlock replies before swiftly opens the door and walks out, leaving one baffled prospective flatmate behind. 

When he steps out onto the pavement in front of St. Barts, Sherlock smiles to himself. Dr. John Watson - the name stays on his tongue and slowly dissolves into the warm, smoky flavors of plum pie with roasted pecans. 

His mobile chirps. One new message. 

_Congratulations on finding a new flatmate, dear brother - MH._

That nosy git.

 

*

 

John Watson finishes unpacking the last box and plunges down onto the neatly made bed. He sighs in contentment. 

The flat is nice. A bit messy, but cozy. John especially likes the overstuffed armchair next to the fireplace. There is another one facing it with metal frames, which John speculates to be Sherlock’s. It fits him. 

Mrs. Hudson is sweet. John likes her. She reminds him of his dead grandmother, especially her biscuits. They are heavenly. 

Looking at his watch, John sits up immediately - it’s already two in the afternoon. Sherlock has been gone since early morning when John has arrived with his belongings. Just when John is about to get up to go grab some lunch, he hears footsteps running up the stairs and the door swings open violently. John rushes out and is greeted with a sight he sure won’t forget for some time: Sherlock is covered from head to toes in blood with a spear in his left hand. 

“Well, it was tedious,” he says to John, and blinks once. A tiny droplet of blood follows the curve of his eyebrows and rolls down to his cheek. 

“I hope that’s not human blood,” John manages a reply. 

_Sugar biscuits, papaya. Interesting combination._

“Of course not.” 

“Good.” 

_Peppermint._

“Hungry?” 

“Uhm, yes, actually I was just about to --” 

_Sweet potato pancakes._

“There’s a Chinese place around the corner.” 

“Good. Yes.” _Peppermint. Tomato soup._ “But, aren’t you going to... clean up first?” 

_Pumpkin pie, sugar._

“Obviously,” Sherlock smiles and runs off into his room, leaving a slightly stunned John Watson in the living room. 

Sherlock’s mobile chirps. 

_I would recommend an Italian restaurant a few blocks from Baker Street for your first date - MH._

_He’s not my date - SH._

 

*

 

Sherlock staggers. His feet ache with every step. His left hand runs along the brick wall of the alleyway, guiding and stopping him from falling. Behind, he can hear shoutings, a few gunshots, and running footsteps. It has started to rain half an hour ago. His coat is beginning to soak through with rain water. 

His mobile vibrates. 

_WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? - John_

He stops, leans back against the wall, and types a reply. 

_On my way back now. - SH_

_Are you ok? Why didn’t you text Greg back? He’s about to send out a team to look for you. I’m sure Mycroft has already sent out a troop of special ops. - John_

Sherlock chuckles. 

_I was busy. I am fine. No sight of Mycroft’s army. And who is Greg? - SH_

His mobile vibrates almost immediately. 

_Greg is Lestrade’s first name. Can’t believe you still don’t remember that. - John_

Another message arrives seconds later. Just be safe. I’m on my way back from St. Bart’s with a new first aid kit. Have a feeling you might need it. - Jonn

Sherlock’s smile widens. He pockets the mobile and staggers out of the alleyway, onto the main road. 

It takes him almost an hour later and a hefty tip to the cab’s driver to get back to Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson lets out a horrified yelp when she opens the door. 

“John!” She calls. 

_Beef stew._

He hears John’s footsteps, then, “Gosh, what did you get yourself into this time?” John’s voice is warm and kind, with a hint of worry. _Also, mustard, roasted sesame seeds, freshly baked bread._

“I’m fine,” Sherlock croaks. 

“I will take it from here. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” John says. He grabs Sherlock’s elbow and leads him upstairs. _Hazelnut spread, vanilla, crackers._

Mrs. Hudson watches her tenants go with a twinkle in her eyes, “I will bring up some tea and biscuits!” 

 

*

 

The next time Sherlock staggers back to Baker Street, John has already left for his date. Mrs. Hudson is also gone to visit her sister in the countryside. Sherlock claims up the stairs one by one, breathing heavily. Lestrade has yelled and almost forced him to go to the hospital, but Sherlock waved it off and left. He has expected John to still be at home. 

Home. Their home. The thought startles him. 

With a slight shake of his head, Sherlock takes his coat and suit jacket off, throws them haphazardly on the floor, and crashes on the couch. He is aching all over after being beaten up by that vengeful and foul-mouth kidnapper. Sherlock is sure there is at least a handful of cuts and bruises, yet he finds himself not care much. 

John is not here. He is very likely to be on a date. With a woman. Sherlock thinks. A bit disappointed. Jealous, even. But he will never admit it. 

Sherlock drifts to sleep, letting his mind fills with images of John and his ridiculous jumpers. John's voice echoes in his mind's palace, each word is emphasized with a pleasant flavor. 

“Sherlock?” _Fresh honey._ “Sherlock! Are you alright?” 

Sherlock stirs. “John.” 

“I’m going to get the first-aid kit. Stay still.” 

_Pickled radish, canned tomatoes, smoked salmon._

A few minutes later, John is back with the kit in hand. 

“I told you to be careful, didn’t I? But you had to provoke that bastard,” John mumbles as he swaps the cuts on Sherlock’s arm with antiseptic cream. 

_Ravioli, cinnamon buns, white tea._

“John,” Sherlock repeats the name as if he’s in a trance. 

“Well, that’s my name!” John says in fake cheerfulness. “Sherlock, will you please be more careful next time? God forbids if there’s a next time.” 

_Pear tarts, honey, rose tea, fried chicken._

“John.” 

“Greg called me in the middle of my date and said that you got hurt,” he huffs out a laugh. “ ‘I have to take care of my injured flatmate’ is never a good excuse to ditch your date.” He wraps a bandage around Sherlock’s left hand.

_Chestnut, salmon, honeydew, baked potatoes, almond thins._

“John.” 

“But, we aren’t getting along well - I meant... Jenny and I. She is a bit too... dull,” John says, mostly to himself. “And you are injured, so I have to prioritize.” 

_Greek salad, dried tomatoes, sprouts._

He reaches for Sherlock’s chest, feeling for any broken rib. 

“I am your number one priority?” Sherlock manages to say a coherent sentence. 

John stops. “Well, you do have the tendency to get into troubles--” He hesitates, “Just be safe, yeah?” 

_Chestnut soup, fish and chips, sweet and sour chicken._

Sherlock can only nod. 

 

*

 

John stops going on dates after New Year, after Sherlock chased away his latest girlfriend on Christmas. He was annoyed at that moment, but now, not so much. None of his past relationships has lasted longer than a month. The reason always boiled down to Sherlock. Often than not, John would have to excuse himself in the middle of the date just to come running after his reckless flatmate to make sure he hasn’t got himself killed. 

_“Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the end. I hope I didn't disappoint anyone with this story! The end is a bit short. I tried not to make it looks rushed, but who knows... I'm bad at wrapping things up. 
> 
> After this story, I think I might dabble into the Mystrade ship. If this plan goes through, my first Mystrade story would be quite melodramatic and sappy - melodramas are my guilty pleasure. I have the basic plot outlined, just need the time and motivation to write it. Anyway, please let me know what you think of THIS story!~ xD

“You’re telling me that you can taste words?” John repeats the words disbelievingly. Anger is being replaced by curiosity. Sherlock has decided to, once again, pick at his violin’s strings vengefully at three in the morning. When John has come down stairs to ask him to stop, begged him to stop, Sherlock pointedly ignored his request and continued playing. Sherlock has warned him that day at Bart’s three months ago, but that hardly make things easier to endure. John knows Sherlock can play many beautiful pieces, so why on earth doesn't he play those instead of making these high pitch, cat-like noises? The conversation became heated until Sherlock told John that it is distracting to hear and speak while he is thinking, something about tasting words. 

“Yes. Please do keep up,” Sherlock says; his voice muffled by the union jack pillow he covers his face with; his violin is back into its case, “It is called auditory-gustatory synesthesia, and yes, it is a real neurological phenomenon. You are a doctor, John. You are supposed to at least have heard of it.” 

“Well, I have heard of it. But it’s incredibly rare! I never expected...” John replied, a bit awestruck. 

_Tangerines, blueberry-apricot jam, lemongrass._

“Close your mouth, John. It’s hardly something to be surprised about,” Sherlock shoots his flatmate his signature smirk.

“Sorry.”

“Actually, keep talking. Your voice is pleasant enough,” Sherlock says contemplatively as his eyes stared, unfocused, into the distance. The union jack pillow now lying on the floor pitifully. 

“In case you forget, Sherlock, that it is almost four o’clock in the morning,” John rubs his eyes sleepily, “And my shift starts in five hours.” When Sherlock doesn't response, John sighs. “Fine. What do you want me to talk about?” He gets a humming noise in reply. “Okay. That was very helpful,” he says, settling down onto his armchair by the fireplace. “Let’s see. I remember when Harry and I were kids, we used to...” 

His words drifted in and out of Sherlock’s mind. 

_Melon. Freshly grated Parmesan. Hot chocolate with melted marshmallows. Peach tarts. Baked potatoes._

He lets the tastes of John’s voice lingers on his tongue. Everything John says is pleasant, which cannot be said about a lot of people Sherlock has met. Why, then, would someone wonderfully normal like John want to live with Sherlock - a sociopath, a freak? Sherlock has thought about it numerous times before but has yet to come up with a valid answer. John obviously enjoys the thrill and excitement of chasing after criminals across London at all hours of the day. Nevertheless, his choice in romantic partners indicates otherwise. John’s ideal type seems to be someone ordinary with an average intellect and has a steady job that doesn't involve body parts or being shot at. If he does seek out for an anchor in life, then he should have moved in with a girlfriend long ago. Living with Sherlock could hardly be considered to be peaceful. 

But before he can delve on this problem longer, John finishes his story, “Harry and I ate our weight in apple pies that day. It was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done!” He chuckles softly. 

_Pistachio gelato. Apple donuts. Cider._

“No. It’s not.” 

“Pardon?” John, still smiling reminiscently, asks. 

_Honey-coated cashews._

“That’s not the most ridiculous thing you have ever done, John,” Sherlock repeats. 

“Well, consider how we got fantastic stomach aches the day after, I think it is,” John says. His smile turns into a bemused twinkle in his eyes. 

_Sweet cherries, flan, raspberry cream macaroons._

“I dare say that the most ridiculous thing you have ever done is decided to be my flatmate.” 

John stays quiet for a few moments, looking at Sherlock contemplatively. 

“How so?” He finally asks. 

_Fruit salad._

“For one thing, I am a difficult person to live with,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly. 

John smiles. 

“Second, I play the violin at the most inappropriate times, as you and Mrs. Hudson fondly remind me so often.” 

The smile grows bigger. 

“Third, I store body parts in the fridge against your wishes.” 

The smile turns into a toothy grin. 

“Fourth, I tend to drag you into dangerous situations.” 

John lets out a hearty laugh. Sherlock quirks his left eyebrow, surprised at his flatmate’s reactions. 

“It seems you’re missing a very crucial detail, Sherlock,” John manages to say, albeit a bit breathlessly from laughing. 

_Gingerbread cookies, starfruit candies, pasta._

“What crucial detail am I missing here?” He most definitely does not like to be told that he has got something wrong. 

“You forgot to take my intentions into account.” 

_Guavas, salted radish._

“Intentions? Do you have ulterior motive in living with me?” 

“Yes, I do.” John says, nodding his head. 

_Peppermint._

“What exactly is it, then?” Sherlock is genuinely curious, though he feels his heart clenched tightly in his chest. A nauseated wave of fear washes over him, forcing Sherlock to sit up. 

John stands up from his armchair, circles around files, magazines and petri dishes lie haphazardly on the floor to get to the couch, to where Sherlock sits with an adorable confused expression on his face. Unfamiliar wrinkle lines appear on his forehead and between his eyebrows. John sits down on the couch next to Sherlock. 

“My ulterior motive, as you put it, is to get close to you,” John says, his voice low and deep. 

_Pumpkin soup, potato salad, provolone cheese._

“John, are you working as my brother’s spy? Or --” Sherlock asks, though he fears the answer. 

“You stupid git,” John laughs. “No, I’m not anyone’s spy, especially not your nosy brother’s.” 

_Orange peels, caramel candies, potato salad, pasta._

Sherlock smiles weakly at that. 

“What I’m saying is,” John takes in a deep breath. Suddenly, he looks nervous and his fingers fidgeting on the hem of his wooly jumper. Sherlock wants to reach out to them to calm his flatmate.

_Irish breakfast tea._

“I wanted to get to know you, Sherlock. You are a wonderful man, despite what others say - they’re just a bunch of idiots anyway,” John says shyly, all the earlier confidence and cheer are gone. 

_Pecans, honey, watermelon, fruit punch, beans on toast._

“John.”

“I think... that... You are amazing,” John pauses, his cheeks are blushing. 

Amazing. _Strawberry flavored cotton candy. How strange. The manufactured sugary taste is not at all overpowering. There is a hint of fresh, tangy strawberries underlying the word._

Sherlock falls silent as he tries to savor every last bit of the word. 

 

*

 

The snowflakes settle on the edge of the window pane. John watches as more snow starts to cover London. It’s a peaceful, early February Sunday morning. John has today off, and there are no crimes, or at least none that peak Sherlock’s interests. The man has been a bit restless the past couple of days. There is nothing to occupy that hyperactive brain. Sherlock is now lying on a heap of pillows on the floor between the couch and the armchairs. 

“Sherlock, will you please get off the floor?” John begs for the eleventh time. 

_Canned chicken soup, pears._

“Bored.” 

“Yes, I know. But how is lying on the floor helps? I’m sure even the couch is more comfortable than that.” 

_Smoked salmon, cucumbers, onion rye bread._

“Bored.” 

“If you’re that bored, fancy a walk with me?” John asks. Anything to keep Sherlock from committing a murder himself out of mere boredom. 

_German salami, butter, sprouts._

“Hmm... Bored.” 

“Get up and put some clothes on. We are going,” John says firmly. 

_Brussels sprouts, almond slices, dumplings._

Sherlock reluctantly gets up and almost trip over a pillow, which earns a smirk from John. When the two men are bundled up in warm clothes (John is wearing an extra thick jumper with his beaten-up jacket while Sherlock is in his usual tailored suit and that ridiculous Belstaff coat, its hem flutters slightly in the wind), John leads them toward the park. 

The streets are blessedly relatively empty. They walk side by side in silence; their hands touch occasionally in the rhythm of their footsteps. John steals a look at Sherlock and the sight catches his breath: the loose black curls dance in the wind, his eyes two deep blue orbs shine with green and golden flakes whenever touched by the sunlight, and the perfect cupid bow lips - red and a bit dried from the cold. 

John swallows thickly and locks his gaze at the park’s entrance ahead. 

The entire park is covered under a blanket of white snow. Fluffy, white streaks of snow lie on top of branches as a few sparkling icicles hanging underneath. 

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” John asks nervously. 

_Roasted tomatoes, ham._

“Hmmm,” comes Sherlock’s mumbled reply. 

“All this snow... I love snow,” John chuckles weakly. 

_Curry, cream, artichokes._

“Hmmm.”

“Harry and I used to love snowball fights. We grew out of it, sadly,” John shakes his head minutely. 

_Papaya, apple juice, pistachios._

Sherlock stops in his track and turns to face John for the first time since they left the flat. 

“What?” John stops. He furrows his eyebrows together in a display of confusion. 

_Mint._

“John,” Sherlock says evenly, his eyes are glittering with excitement and curiosity. “Do you like me?” 

John feels his breath hitches up a knot as his heart rate speeds up and his face reddens. “Wh.. What?” He stutters. 

_Mint._

“You heard me,” a hint of amusement slips from Sherlock’s voice.

“Well, I... You... I...” John takes in a deep breath before he continues, “You... are my flatmate. So...” 

_Candied orange slices, salted peanuts, stir-fried vegetables._

“Oh?” Sherlock’s left eyebrow shots up. 

“Yes. And so... I don’t harbor... harsh feelings toward you,” John finishes his sentence in a rush. He can feel his cheeks burning up. 

_Ginger ale, dried bamboo shoots, chocolate-covered jelly beans._

“Good,” Sherlock curtly nods then strides ahead, his coat flutters in the sudden movements. 

“Good?” John says, a bit dazed. “Good...”

_Red wine._

 

*

 

“What does... ‘paper’ taste like?” John asks. He’s sitting on the couch with his feet up the coffee table, while Sherlock stretches across the couch with his head against an armrest and his legs on John’s laps. They have been playing a tasting game, as John calls it, for a good hour and a half since they wrapped their most recent case. 

“Apples,” Sherlock replies. His eyes are fixated on the ceiling, observing the cracks’ patterns with much more interests than warranted. 

“How about... ‘cloud’?” 

“Crackers.” 

“Hmm... Do names have distinctive tastes too?” 

“Yes. They are words too, John,” Sherlock answers with a smirk. 

“Smartass,” John mumbles, a fond smile plays on his lips. “Then, how about ‘Mycroft’?” 

“Strong black tea, extremely unpleasant. Don’t say his name again,” Sherlock scowls as John laughs. 

“Hmmm... my name?” John asks timidly. 

Sherlock tears his eyes away from the ceiling and sits up, “John. John is strawberry jam tarts.” He folds his legs and inches closer to his flatmate, whose face is reddening at an alarming rate. 

“Re...Really?” John stammers. The close proximity and Sherlock’s knowing gaze are becoming too much. 

“It is a hypothesis that I would like to test,” Sherlock’s voice deepens. His face only a couple of inches away from John’s. “Will you assist me?” He doesn't wait for John to response, seeing how John is frozen in shock. Instead, he leans in and gently locks their lips together. 

John can feel his rapid heartbeat, and is sure that Sherlock can feel it too. Slowly, John’s hand glides up Sherlock’s back and rests at the nape of his neck, gently caressing the bare skin there and teasing a few stray locks of hair. Sherlock has both of his hands around John’s waist, holding him plush against his skinny frame. 

The kiss is soft, sweet and short. It’s just a beginning. There will be plenty of time for the hungry and passionate lovemaking. 

Sherlock still has his hands on John’s waist, pressing them together, even after they break apart. John takes in a shaky breath, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock, his... friend, colleague, partner – Sherlock is all of these and more. His Sherlock. His and no one else’s. 

“So, did I provide enough information to support your hypothesis?” John asks teasingly. 

_Orange soda, nutmeg, vanilla spice latte._

“Yes,” Sherlock chuckles, and tightens his arms around John, who snuggles into the embrace. 

They sit like that for what feels like an eternity, only to be interrupted by, “Yoohoo! Boys?” and the sounds of Mrs. Hudson opening the door. “I have some almond biscuits that John likes here…” She stops short when she sees her tenants break apart; John is blushing a shade of bright red while Sherlock studies the uninteresting patterns of the rug. 

“Oops, I’m sorry dears! Please do continue!” Mrs. Hudson covers her mouth to hide the knowing smile, “I will just leave the biscuits here for later.” She disappears just as quickly as she has entered. 

As soon as the door is closed behind her, John breaks into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. “Oh gosh, look at us! Behaving like two teenagers sneaking around after curfew!” 

Sherlock gives John an exasperated glare as his cheeks begin to burn red. 

“Oh come ‘ere, love,” John says, seemingly unaware of his word choice, and extends his arms out. Sherlock is stuns but takes two steps forward to fall into John’s embrace. They fit together easily as two old puzzle pieces. 

Love. _Pomegranate, honey._


End file.
